Nine Lives
by jbeanstalk
Summary: MacGyver has another opportunity to consider the meaning of friendship. Post 'Friends' season two. Spoilers for 'The Escape' season one. Just for fun. Enjoy!


**Nine Lives**

_Author Note: Hugs to Arthur for his first-hand knowledge of a certain animal. Kisses to MacBedh for inspiration and MitzyTN for feedback. All characters belong to their rightful copyright holders and no claim is made on them. Written purely for fun. Enjoy!_

In my time, I've found there's some good advice you just shouldn't take. Take Harry's advice at the party for example. The surprise birthday bash that had me thinking real serious about friends and how they'd gotten me out of more than a few jams, out of those jams that had me thinking real hard about quitting. Quitting my job, quitting the Phoenix Foundation.

Go with your gut, Harry'd told me.

Well, for the last coupla weeks I'd been having a running battle with myself over the sanity of what I was doing, gut feeling winning mostly, my head doing a pretty good job of defending itself, it not helping one bit the water wasn't always agreeable. But when I heard that rustle of clothing and the crunch of sand behind me, my gut turned tail and turned traitor. I began to wish I'd found that scotch tape and stuck my resignation back together – piece by piece.

"What do you think you're doing?" someone said behind me.

Ouch.

I'd been warned how quick the sun can get up in these parts but I had to see it more 'an once to believe it. One minute the sky's giving me warning, the next the sun's staring me right in the face, leaving me feeling about as conspicuous as if I'd walked into the ladies bathroom. I don't make a habit of it but I'd done it often enough to know what it feels like. Out here in the desert there weren't a whole lot of places to hide, either.

"Well, I'm listening. What are you doing?"

The deep voice sounded casual enough, without the unfriendly snarl, without the jab of something downright provocative in my back. At least he was wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, not one of those suits the bad guys back home all seem to wear. I did my impersonation of a scarecrow and waved my fingers about to show I knew how to be friendly if he did.

The problem was, I had good reason to doubt that he did.

"Ah, I think I mighta took a wrong turn somewhere back aways." I talked a little louder and drawled a whole lot longer than I normally do, trying to sound some way like the locals I'd heard down here – and failed. Miserably. Now, playing dumb had its uses, I'll grant you that, but as I was wearing borrowed fatigues, I knew it would only get me so far.

The guy chuckled – friendly-like – even though, the view under my outstretched elbow wasn't encouraging. I could see the tip of something sharp hanging from his belt. It wasn't an Uzi or a throat-cutter but deadly all the same. I knew if I got hit with it, it would get me plenty of time to regret tearing up that resignation.

"About three hundred kilometres ago, I'd guess," he said, referring to the length of time I'd been trailing this motley crew. "NASA or USAF?"

"Nope."

We were both standing in the Woomera Prohibited Area, a military site about half the size of my home state and located in the central desert of a continent just below the equator. Forty-nine thousand square miles of enough space for an entire army to get lost in. A joint facility of the government down here and the US forces. We call the countries who are friends of the US 'allies', so the allied forces. Now, you want to talk about casual. All there was to mark this _active_ top-secret test missile site was a chain fence a ten-year-old could climb over and a few signs warning where in the heck you were. No security cameras, no patrols, nothin'.

Maybe they knew something I didn't.

"Ah, Mister Peter Thornton. Tsk, tsk."

"Gettin' warmer." I wasn't only referring to the sun that was frying my back. The jump in logic made me jerk a little, just to see if I had the right man. I had no reason to believe he knew about the Phoenix Foundation, though it'd been a year or so since we'd met.

He chuckled again and it wasn't any more reassuring. "I'm both flattered and disappointed. You've built yourself quite a reputation and you've let your hair down – so as to speak – MacGyver."

Double ouch.

I was kinda hoping these last few days of conserving water and razors would blend me right in – at least until I opened my mouth once too often.

"You haven't exactly been sitting on your hands, Ashford. Still as smooth as snake oil, I hear." I sputtered when the million or so flies that kept me company dived for my mouth and I swiped my face with my upper arm. I waved my hands while I still had them. "Do you mind?"

"Relax. There's no gun at your back."

"Really? Then what's that for?" I thumbed over my shoulder at the crossbow on his belt.

"The only thing guaranteed not to jam. For wild animals and I haven't quite put you in the same class. Dangerous, perhaps, but not wild."

"So, I can dispense with the surrender?"

"Of course. But carefully."

I lowered my arms and turned on my boot heels – carefully – giving Ashford a long version of something of my own brand of disapproval. Just to let him know the feeling went both ways. He didn't raise the aim of the crossbow but he did shift to my left while I turned. Onto my defensive side and way out of reach.

No love lost, then.

"I have a permit," he said. "All this cloak and dagger really is unnecessary. The government knows I'm here. No doubt my group is even registering on their satellite."

Just another thing I had yet to figure out 'round here. The locals were allowed to go about their business, raise cattle, whatever – while in the restricted site. No-one seemed to mind. Maybe the people who lived out here were confident the allied forces couldn't hit a barn door at five paces, or maybe they thought life was a lot like a shooting gallery anyway. Chances of gettin' hit about the same whether crossin' the road or the country. I used to think that – until I crossed a few too many of those trigger-happy kinda folks.

"The gov'nment's a little curious to know what you're doing out..." I made an airy gesture at a landscape I could only describe as the biggest stockpile of cayenne pepper I could bring myself to imagine. I recognised the occasional salt bush but the twisted trees were something more like I'd seen in the savannahs of Africa. Mulga, I'd been told. Deceptively tough wood. But it does burn well I'd discovered when the temperature nosedived at night and I allowed myself a fire. At least here there were a few buildings that had survived the test bombings, the iron and wood homestead and outbuildings scattered in the trees giving me enough cover to risk a closer look at what Ashford was up to.

"The government says jump and you say how high? I don't think so. You no longer work for the DXS. No, Phoenix Foundation it is and, as the Foundation's involved, I foresaw our paths would cross. I can see you're surprised I know."

"Just a tad, ye-ah."

"Breaking me out of that African jail. Remarkable, truly remarkable. I know what you're capable of."

"That still smarts." What stung was that I thought I was rescuing a friend, not helping an arms dealer complete a transfer of Russian weapons onto the black market.

"A gifted friend will also make a gifted and _motivated _adversary."

Friends in business have strategic alliances, crooked ones cartels; criminals have accomplices and mobsters have syndicates. This 'friend' fitted somewhere in between and I had my own word for him. "Don't tell me, wisdom from your grandfather."

"Sarcasm I didn't expect from you, MacGyver. You did take my money, destroy my shipment and nearly blow me to pieces. One doesn't forget a month in a Third World clinic."

"I warned you the grenade was coming. As I recall you didn't return the favour." To date it was one of my biggest regrets, letting that guy go, one that made me consider my position every time I asked Pete for an update from Interpol. As Ashford said himself, a case of blind trust and one I wanted to make up for. Badly. I wouldn't say I leapt at the chance to nail him but it came pretty close, especially when I'd left a guy in that stinking prison who didn't deserve to be there and more especially since the consequences this time could impact on the Phoenix Foundation.

It was only when I got out here that I started thinking...real seriously.

Ashford picked at his fingernails. "I can't blame you, I suppose. You fight fairly and I respect you for it. I do have a lot to thank you for. "

"You're darn right you do."

"I mean it, I have been doing a lot of thinking. About scruples."

"Raising a whole lot of hell says something 'bout what you're thinking." One thing I'll give him credit – he did do the innocent act real well. The trouble is the guy didn't have shadows. Calculating, ruthless – yes – and let's not forget downright deadly, but without being ugly. If I listened to him long enough even my gut would believe he was the cleanskin missionary he pretended to be.

Which...leads me back to my point in the first place.

"But I fear you've wasted your time this time, MacGyver. This is a free country and who's to say what I'm doing is illegal. In fact, it isn't."

"Well then there's no problem, is there? Maybe I'm just going where you're going."

"What an entertaining coincidence."

"And we both know the answer to that. Let's forget about legality and talk stakes. You know, the enormous, risky kinda stakes. All bound up with big money. Big, illegal money which I noticed you have this strange fascination for."

"Hmm, yes, I see your point. So... to be sure we're on the same wavelength, where do you think we're headed?"

There was no point wasting time. I'd come to find out, I may as well get down to it. I nudged a stone near my boot. The stone was grey and almost perfectly round, rolling away when I toed it. From this distance I could mistake it for a rusty canonball. "By the looks, we're pretty close."

As Ashford stared fixedly at the rock I'd kicked, I knew I'd given the right – and wrong – answer. His body language didn't change. It was the way his fingers on his right hand curled around the stock of the crossbow that gave me the shivers.

And I just knew knowing was gunna cost me.

Without looking at me, Ashford said, "You're exactly right, the stakes are high for me on this one. But where are my manners? Come on, some southern hospitality. The least I can do for you."

"Someone who I thought was a friend told me not to be taken in by surface appearance. I guess I have you to thank for that."

"You're wrong this time. Come." He encouraged me forward with an enthusiastic wave and pointed towards the buildings in front of me. "Come, come, I have something to show you."

My thinking went in the opposite direction, taking a few cautious steps behind me a reflex response. "Look, Brian, a rain check. Got company waitin' back at camp. But thanks."

Two horses, in fact, probably getting mighty thirsty by now since I'd been away all night. When I mentioned my Minnesota background to the Area Commander, he threw me two bridles and pointed me in the direction of the four-legged division. Following a group of vehicles on horseback wasn't as crazy as it sounded. Or, at least, not on paper. Sound travelled out here like it was amplified for the big game. My transport was dead space compared to this lot. And there were no roads. There were times when I just 'loafed', just stretched myself out in the shade to wait while Ashford and his cohorts dug themselves out of a dozen sand bogs. Actually, they told me this sand's not actually sand but a very fine soil called bulldust and it's said like they're cussin'. I guess I can see why.

"You'll want to see this. Guaranteed. I've had two of my men go for your ponies. They will be cared for, I can assure you. So will you."

"Come on, Brian, pull the other one. It plays violins."

O-kay. Another ouch. There goes the defencemen.

I was doing the math. A forward play was a no-go. He was far enough out of my reach that he could shout the place down before I slugged him. I knew how many more like him there were just beyond the tin walls. Maybe a backcheck. Ashford's bow wasn't armed and I calculated it would take him about six seconds to point the stock towards the ground, load the bowstring, unclip the safety and raise it to take aim. The distance I could run in that time with these boots on and in this dust made the skin on my back crawl.

When I was a kid out in the backwoods, I'd seen what a bolt from a crossbow could do to a buck. And the suffering it could cause... Now getting a bullet doesn't seem quite the same, I should know, I've taken my fair share. They can just as easily say howdy and then keep on goin' someplace else. This is a little more personal. Get stuck with one of those thick arrows in you, 'specially one with a broadhead, and you're guaranteed it'll stick with y' through thick and thin until, well, one of two things happen. You get help or ... you don't.

I accepted there would come a time, you know, the number of lives that cat Pete talked about has, and somewhere in the back of my mind I knew the score. I just didn't want to go the long way about it if I could help it.

I musta telegraphed what I was thinking and hesitated for too long. Ashford blew a whistle that was hanging 'round his neck and I had a whole new set of stats to work with. MacGyver, one; Ashford, five. Well surprise, surprise, shotguns an' all. I guess they didn't jam as easily, either.

My hands went skywards. Reluctantly. Good ol' Ashford didn't even grin, didn't even gloat. Still didn't make me feel any better.

"Don't be like that, man. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised."

Somehow I doubted it but I let them call the shots. The four guys were cowboy types. You know, big hats, open-necked shirts and torn jeans. Sorta like Ashford but without the polish. Plenty of spit but definitely no polish. No introductions were made and, when we stopped at what looked like an oversized doghouse, I knew none would be necessary.

"There we are. You see, custom-made just for you. You'll like it." Ashford kicked at the grill-face and it swung on solid hinges. They didn't even squeal.

I'd seen larger versions scattered along our route in the desert. They were concrete bunkers built into the sides of dunes, no doubt to shelter in on the off-chance you got caught in a test blast. Hopefully, they weren't sendin' down anything atomic.

Ashford continued. "Apparently station dogs are considered valuable or someone thinks so. Their own bomb resistant shelters. In you get."

"Hospitality Ashford style. Swell."

"You gave me a chance, it's only right I do the same. Scruples, remember. I have no doubt in the world you'll get out of this bloody kennel and then it'll be up to you. Give up your chase and return to Woomera Base or enjoy the facilities here and wait for our return. No charge."

"And if I come after you?"

"Foolhardy you might be, suicidal I don't think so. It's very generous. Food and water here in abundance. In giving you a puzzle to solve, one suitable of your calibre, you'll have your reputation intact.

"Not to mention yours. Showing a soft spot might be bad for business."

"Exactly. In. No wait." He turned to his 'mates'. "Search him, thoroughly."

"If you've done your homework like you said you know I don't carry weapons." As I stared into the shallows of that box, my gut gave another wrenching turn. I didn't expect Ashford to provide room service and locked in there it would be an even longer way about it than the alternative I just considered. "Awh come on, Ashford, just get it over with."

"Contrary to what you might think, I take life only if it's unavoidable. In your case, I don't have to – those scruples, remember. And, of course, I still have friends in higher places than you do." He glanced at the sun and, bless him, still didn't look as pleased as he must have felt.

Apparently they weren't looking for weapons, either. They were, well, just takin' everything. Boots, socks, shirt, t-shirt, undershirt. When it came down to my pants, I had to protest. "No way. No. Way. A little dignity, huh. Please."

Thankfully, Ashford waved the boys back – after they took my watch, my belt and every single item out of my pockets – there went my matches, my compass, my knife, my charcoal tablets, my emergency rope, my come-in-handy wire, my never-know-when-you-might-need-them paper clips and, lastly but not leastly, my trusty, don't-leave-home-without-it duct tape. I admit I had to really clamp down to be handled that way and not retaliate. I figured if I stood any chance at all, I needed to be in the best possible condition. Getting beat up at this stage of the game wouldn't do me any favours, 5-on-1 tough enough odds for anyone. He was right, I wasn't entirely suicidal. Yet. Ask me again in a coupla days.

Unfortunately, my non-combatant stance didn't get me off scot-free. One cowboy couldn't help himself. He landed a gun butt to my back somewhere near my right kidney, which sent me straight to the ground gagging in surprise and with the pain. So much for being friendly.

"Sorry, old man," Ashford said. "It's not that I don't think you'll make the sensible choice."

Right about now I could see each piece of that resignation coming perfectly together, if ever I got out of this mess that is...

"Still – the sweetheart, huh, Brian."

* * *

Here's the play. At the break, it's the Ashford Allgiants leading the Minnesota Minors one nil. Well, folks, it's looks like the Minors are gunna have to pull something special out of the bag to get back into this game. The Ashford Centre is lining up for a Howe and the Minor's Forward needs to win this faceoff to stand a ghost of a chance. Can he do it?

Okay, Harry, what now?

I rested my face against the bars to take a breather. After three hours I had achieved exactly – nothing – if you don't count the damage to my hands and feet, and the realization that cowboy may have done one of my ribs serious harm. You could say my efforts eliminated a whole heap of possibilities. I should've been the one flattered if Ashford thought I could get out of this – box – or maybe it was just his brand of snake oil. Lining me up for a break. Again.

One thing about the low humidity in the desert, it preserves things real well. As I'd seen before, these shelters were made of thick reinforced concrete, walls and roof, the roof curved a bit like those mausoleums you see in the cemetery. The front face was a mix of slabs of lumber of that mulga I mentioned and the metal grill spaced just far enough apart to get my fingers through but not my hand, the latch padlocked where I couldn't reach – all in shiny, brand-spankin' new condition, not a sign of rust or rot or anything that might get me leverage.

The floor was a continuation of the slab walls, though I was sitting on a metal plate, raised off the concrete by planks. I hesitated to pull up the plate, mainly because it was kinda tricky to fit six-foot one 'n one half into four-foot six with any room to manoeuvre – not that I was feeling like doing any callisthenics.

And...I had this weird, spine-tingling notion that I wasn't alone in this dog box. The local tribal elder had laughed as he described the various unfriendlies apart from the human ones I might encounter on my travels. Funny guy. I dunno what it was, some vague scraping noise I couldn't put my finger on, which had me wondering if I was actually sittin' on something that might make Ashford look like a saint, after all.

As you can imagine, then, I focussed my energies on how I'd gotten into this mess. The front and only door. Which brought me into contact with that interesting wood – mulga. I found out how hard it was by the pressure my bare feet had brought to bear on it without making a dent and then my fingers, picking, prying, scraping, scratching. I guess I would've chewed at it if I thought it would've done any good but it wasn't too long before my feet and hands started to redden and burn like crazy from my attempts.

To make matters worse, I was beginning to understand how much of a problem being so tall was. I couldn't stretch, I couldn't do much 'cept lie on my back with my feet elevated against the back wall or lie on my side with my knees drawn up. When the sun came around to shine directly in my face, you could say the countdown really began. The warm breeze that picked up as midday passed seemed cooling but, as the heat built up in this box, I marked the hours, the minutes, until I lost enough water through evaporation so I stopped sweating.

Then the real suffering would begin.

Ashford and his crew left when I made my second round assault on the door about an hour in. The wind rose the dust, rattled loose bits of tin, rang the leaves of the trees. In the far-off distance an animal bawled. The place was left with an empty feel and so was I. I didn't need to be reminded how far away help was.

The good kinda friend right about now would be handy.

Right, Pete, Harry?

As I rested my face against the grill, I looked at the cause of all my woes – those canonball rocks. They were actually leftovers from a nearby meteorite strike. Some meteorites break up into rusty-like balls of regolith but it was what was in them that had everyone excited, including our researchers at the Foundation. An isotope of helium called helium-3. Hard to come by here on earth but plentiful in outer space. Helium-3 is useful in generating nuclear power without radioactive waste. Just think about reducing that downside! The Phoenix Foundation did. A whole lot.

Of course, you had to find the stuff first and then it was finders keepers. The government didn't always like who was finding it before they did, 'specially not on their land. The thing is – if you can make nuclear power, you can also make nuclear weapons. Scientists tell us a meteorite hits the Earth about every six years or so, which potentially adds up to a lot of that stuff laying around if you count back a few million years. Course not all rock from meteorites contain helium-3, generally those rusty ones do, so all you had to do was look for them and it didn't take much of that h-3 to keep parties who were willing to pay happy. Which, we gathered, was why Ashford was out here. With – me right behind him.

Another thing I could see outside was a tank, raised high above me on pylons. Water dripped from a weak point onto the ground not ten feet from me. Hope and despair in one neat little package. It would do my reputation wonders if I didn't make it while that thing stared me in the face.

Ashford, you old son of a diseased, flea-bitten, worm-ridden camel.

Now I'm not known for my patience or for giving in so after a few minutes of feeling useless and feeling that sun roast the roots of my hair, I decided to attack this plate – and take whatever was coming.

The metal plate I was on went two-thirds the length of the box – the back thirds – and the only reason I could think of it was there was that it would be cooler for a dog to sit on. So long as the sun didn't get on it, of course. I squeezed myself into the forward third and I use that word rather loosely. Poked, prodded and generally inserted a round rear in a square hole. I braced my feet against the side wall, twisting my torso and testing my pain threshold to the max to keep them up outa the way. If you've ever played the game 'Twister', you'll know how I felt – only add a handful of white-hot skewers in your back for fun. At one stage I did check to make sure Ashford hadn't stuck me with one of those bolts, the pain was so intense.

To see what I was doing, my face needed to be squashed against the concrete into the front corner and I had to squint and look very sideways. My arms – my bare arms – lifted the plate while the rest of me kept the rest of me above the plate. It's funny how vulnerable you feel when you're next to naked.

I lifted, grunted, lifted some more, and grunted louder, and wasn't prepared for what I saw.

The plate was heavy and scraped against the concrete sides as I lifted one end, cautiously at first then with more urgency as gravity and that rib wantin' attention took over. I was right, I wasn't alone. It wasn't a snake or some equally deadly critter. It was a cat. With fur missing, ears half gone, and wounds barely healed, it was the most skinny, mangy, beat-up, neglected living thing I'd ever laid my eyes on.

At that first glance, I reckoned I saw myself looking back at me. I told Pete at the party I thought I had used up eight of my nine lives. Here, my ninth life stared straight back, being about as beat-up as I figured I might get before I got home given what'd happened so far. And the more I lifted the plate, the wider and wilder that life appeared. It kinda unravelled, the eyes, the mouth, the fur, it looking for the closest way out and I blocked the only exit, if there was one at all. The idea of a thousand or so claws being sharpened on my bare skin as it tried to get past didn't help me any.

And – there was one big problem. I needed to drop the plate. But if I did, I would hurt...nice kitty there.

"Sorry – to stop by – like this," I gasped, which was a feat in itself considering every part of my body complained from the strain. "Not – my idea. Not – my fault. Don't – take it out – on me. Okay?"

The cat slithered, really, to the rear wall, not taking its eyes off me. It literally picked itself up and slithered, moving while it stayed flat. I wish I knew how they did that. It could come in real handy.

I had to do something with the plate so I gave it one last heave, putting my weight behind it to stand it up. The only thing – my legs and half my body were in the way. I twisted to lie down as I shoved the plate against the wall. I landed hard. I covered my head, and waited for the world to right itself and for a reaction from my companion.

Nothing happened.

When my breathing eased to something of a shallow pant, I looked. The cat was bailed up in the corner, all armoury cranked up to the max but it didn't move. Or strike.

We stared eyeball to eyeball and it didn't look any prettier closer up.

"See, didn't hurt you. And you didn't hurt me. We'll get along. Huh? Pals? For the duration? By the look of you, it'd be proper to call y' Lucky."

Right then and there I discovered something. How much better I felt with something – Lucky – to talk to. At least it looked like it was listening to me and I was surprised how talkative I got. Two weeks alone does have that effect even on me. I talked about anything and everything, just so Lucky – I think it was a he, he seemed to enjoy my talking about hockey – could get used to the sound of my voice.

Hockey. _Ice_ hockey. I imagined plunging into great mounds of the cold stuff. How I got stuck in places that'd never heard of it was beyond me.

One thing that gave me the idea that Lucky wasn't totally feral – apart from the fact he hadn't torn me to pieces – was that the cat was wearing a collar. It looked liked the collar had been put on eons ago and just left. Maybe too long. The collar looked way too tight.

"You know, that can't be good."

If Lucky agreed, he didn't show it. He just kept up the stare.

The collar did give me an idea, however. My friends often ask me how I come up with all these strange ideas that somehow get me out of tight spots. I really don't know but sometimes the things I see around me start these scenes running in my head, kinda like watchin' a movie. I call them 'potentials', maybe someone in the film business would call them something like 'auditions'. You know, suitability for the part, try 'em out for size, that kinda thing.

I cautiously looked for whatever else that might be useful under the plate. Apart from the years of accumulated cobwebs and insect parts, and the dried leaves brought in by the wind, the cat had made a bed of its own fur and other bits of debris. The beauty about all of this was that the stuff was flammable. The mulga, the wood holding the grill, was also flammable. One plus one plus one equalled one escape. All I needed was something to make fire with and maybe, just maybe... though I did need the co-operation of the cat.

Here, kitty.

"Hey, little guy, wanna play a game."

I inched my fingers closer to Lucky, not so fast as to start World War III and not so fast he would notice. There weren't too many places in this box the cat could go without coming into contact with some part of me, I just didn't want him doing it at any speed or with any intent. I made it so Lucky would have to come to me of his own accord – when he got used to my smell – which I know, okay, would've strained any blossoming relationship.

When I sensed Lucky relax a bit, I dug my pinky under some leaves and waggled it.

"Get it, go on."

The hunter instinct in Lucky overcame any misgivings he might've had about associating with me. On my third try, Lucky pounced. My hand pretended to be escaping prey and he came after it. It wasn't long before he tolerated my touch, helped along by the fact that he discovered my hand was juicy to chew and available to 'kill' in whatever sadistic manner he chose without any punishment from me. I guess we were both pretty desperate.

Oh man. The things I do.

By the second hour of our friendship, I could pet the thing and it didn't shy away. That sure was a relief to my fingers.

"You'd feel better without that thing 'round your neck," I said – hopefully convincingly.

When I lifted my hand to his head, he flattened like a bad image re-size. Ears went flat, body went flat. He showed me his neatly-arranged, well-honed teeth. I reckoned my hand was already showing signs of wear so a little more wouldn't hurt. I inched my fingers around the buckle and slowly, ever slowly undid it. The collar peeled off , thankfully, without too much of the skin around his neck, leaving him looking about as buck as I felt.

"What did I tell ya, huh?"

While he looked unsure of what'd just happened, I snatched up the collar in triumph. Which wasn't a moment too soon as I was starting to feel my temp spike, my mind greying out a little more than usual. I picked up a pebble and sucked on it to keep moisture in my mouth.

There was also a short length of chain under the plate, broken at both ends but I'll bet it was once used to keep the dog around the box. I had the collar and the chain. I needed one more item and I was outa there.

Piece'a cake.

I struggled to turn around and face the door again. It was too much for the cat, who took to all regions at supersonic speed – over me. He finally dove for the space between the grill and the concrete, and I still have this image in my head of the critter stuck, head out, body in. The heat definitely got to me. I could only get up to the fleshy part of my forearm under the grill. Lucky, he seemed to dislocate every bone in his tabby little body to get under it. Disassembled then re-assembled while I watched.

Then he was gone.

"Call that gratitude?" I yelled after him then regretted it when that rib made sure I remembered it was still there.

To stop me feeling the loss of my 'friend', I focused on the task ahead, grateful for what I did have. Now, all I needed was one of those rocks. I had the flammable material and, with my collar and chain, I had a lasso. Metal on metal and sparks will fly. Yes!

By the third hour of our friendship, I struggled to focus, to get my hand to do what I wanted it to do. It was twenty-four hours since I'd had water and it was darned hot. Unbearably, maddeningly suffocatingly hot. It was difficult to do anything, anyway, with only part of my arm free. It seemed the harder I tried, the harder it got to function. A fear of failure crept in somewhere; a strange combination of paralysis and panic sorta leaked into my long-suffering gut.

Maybe this was my ninth life, the cat some weird predictor of my fate.

Around the fourth hour, I started to hear things. I could still hear that animal I knew weren't a cow bawling off in the distance. There was something else. Soft 'murring' noises I couldn't identify or locate. I was going nuts, I knew it. I kept on. Reel in lasso, grasp collar between thumb and forefinger, toss at rock. Fail. Try again. Try...what was I trying? Reel, grasp, toss. Grasp, reel...ah? Again...

Not long after I started to feel it was useless, the cat came back. Not in a top hat, or boots or a coat. Lucky came back. He was the one making those 'murring' noises and trotted to sit in front of the box. He had something big in his mouth and he dumped it on the ground right next to my fingers. It was a frog and no ordinary one. Lucky batted at it with his paw as if to play with it then rolled near it, still making very proud-sounding noises.

The tribal elder had showed me this exact same frog, just in case I ran short of water. It was a water-holding frog. They bury into the dirt and store water in their bodies for the summer to keep themselves alive, coming up in the wet season after rain. I guess the leak in the tank would seem like that. The original landholders use them like sponges; squeeze and you get a drink – if you can stomach the slime.

_No_ problem.

I grabbed the frog. The eyes were watching me.

"Ah – okay, share and share alike. Only fair, I agree."

The cat ran off and came back with another one, which it feasted on while I watched. Don't blame me I kept seein' Ashford as that frog.

"Way to go, feral friend!"

Maybe Ashford did have friends in higher places and I had them in lesser but, once again, what I needed was my own special brand of Lucky. While I'm counting, it's two plays over, one to go. And – it still comes down to this, do I go with my head or my gut?

* * *

Ladies and gentlemen, if you went for coffee during the remaining seconds of the last period of play, you missed a class comeback by the Minnesota Minors. The Minors pulled off a miracle to find themselves level pegging one all with the Allgiants at the final break. A combination of persistence, sheer desperation and Luck from left-field, raised the Minors from the doldrums and from the possibility of sound defeat. The question remains: Where will the Minors go from here? Can they draw ahead or will the Allgiants call down a few surprises of their own?

I couldn't help chuckle as I fingered another one of those mementos of an out-of-the-box escape – if you'll excuse the pun. The collar and the chain and the rock that had started the fire. Other souvenirs were there lined up on the table at my party, signs of my supposed genius. To my way of thinking, smarts had nothin' to do with it. To each and every one of those signs, I owed a debt of gratitude either to luck or to a friend who cared enough to see me through. Just like that cat who watched what I was doing and wondered where I lost my marbles. Genius? No way. If I really wanted to think about it, each item was a kinda memento mori – a warning of death cheated by only this much. Nine lives well and truly down the tube.

So, where to from here? Woomera? Wait for Ashford's return? Or the final option...?

I let the answer hang while I celebrated my freedom – by wallowing like ol' man McGinney's prize hog in the mud under the tank – until I could stand upright and until I located the outlet valve on the tank so I could empty the contents over me. Lucky remained aloof and high and dry, despite all my efforts to change that. Okay, so the water was warm, if not a little too warm, but, as with all things in life, it's a question of perspective. It was a helluva lot cooler than where I'd been.

In the box once I had drunk and eaten Lucky's present, I was refreshed enough to carry on – not only from the water but from having the company. I finally managed to lasso the rock, make a fire and burn the front off the grill, using the plate as a shield against the heat and the smoke. That bulldust came in real handy. Being so dry and being soil, not sand, it had loads of organic material in it – that made a low flashpoint. Let's not talk about the risks involved – like the smoke taking me out before the flames. Later in the day, the wind stopped so the smoke wasn't blown back into the box as it should've.

Another stroke of luck?

The dilemma I saw; wasn't it that debt of gratitude that kept me out in these scenic places after those salt-of-the-earth types like Ashford? The more I did this, that debt just doggone kept on growin'. What was a fella supposed to do? Maybe not think about it too much... but I don't know if going with my gut was the answer... I knew what Pete would do if I got back home with a mangy cat smuggled in under my shirt.

I did throw Lucky my own version of a birthday bash. Ashford said to help myself, I'd be welcome. So I did. I threw open the pantry in the homestead for Lucky. Mostly canned goods but I was hoping if Lucky had been surviving on frogs, sardines, salmon and salted beef wouldn't be too much of a comedown. I dumped it all, every last can, on the kitchen floor in little piles for Lucky to pick and choose to his heart's content and I made sure the door stayed open so he could come and go. So he did.

"Hey, what about all this, huh? Good tucker, I think is how they describe it around here."

There was also the problem of Lucky being homeless, so I slapped together a little something that would keep him warm and dry and hopefully safe. Being warm and dry may not have been much of a problem at this time of the year but I figured it wouldn't always be like that. Now I'm not much of a cat lover, 'specially feral ones causing havoc with native animals the way they do, but my insides did glow a tad warmer when the cat rubbed his appreciation against my leg and ran about, tail up, after me as if I'd been imprinted on his brain since birth. After all, was it really his fault he was out here?

Like me?

"Not bad. I'm thinking of moving in myself. Consider a sublet?"

Once he was taken care of, it was my turn. Just as the sun came up without warning, it went down the same way. It dropped like the proverbial brick and it wasn't long before I knew what I was missing. There were no clothes left laying about, but there was some bedding and you know what I did, I don't have to tell you. I did what I'm best at. Improvising. Lawrence of Arabia, I may not have been; maybe think Angus of Australia.

Of course, while I was gearing up I also knew what I was really doing. I was avoiding the answer to that fateful question: which way? I guess I rarely have to make that decision, consciously at least. I mean I had every reason to go back. This rib was gallin' me and the Area Commander did put a time limit on my being in here. Be out of there in six weeks or be prepared to duck, he'd warned me. A test firing was in the air – or on the ground, however you want to look at it. I thing is, I don't make plans, I go with the flow, with opportunities that come my way. And I reckoned transportation would be the key...

To carry whatever was left of my ninth life...

And I have to tell you when I saw that transportation I actually considered putting myself straight back in that doghouse. It was that bad, believe me. The horses were gone, so was my gear, so was anything that resembled being gas-driven. No vehicles, no machinery, no pumps, no generators, no lawnmowers. Not even the _parts_ of them. After an exhaustive search of the house and surrounds I couldn't even find something to harness the natural resources. I'd used the only sheets and blankets to protect me from the elements. Good ol' Ashford and his homework.

I could walk. It would mean being without boots and without any means to carry water. In an emergency I could keep heading east until I found the only highway out here. So long as I could accurately keep east, that is. I could get lucky – again – and find a travelling party, though I was seriously counselled to avoid testing that luck out here if I didn't have to. And I didn't.

There was an alternative. I just didn't like it one bit.

It didn't take me long to discover the animal that was causing all the racket. It was in a distant corral, a long way from the house for very good reason. Lord, there's one thing I hate almost as much as heights – camels.

This camel had been left behind, if the tracks leading into the desert were anything to go by. And I could see why. It was not only down in condition – his single hump showing the characteristic drawing in his nose ring had snapped _and_ he was finding something very interesting in the wind. He charged about the yard, testing the rails, froth streaming from his mouth, the red sac they have like a bladder was in full view. I'd been out in the backwoods enough to recognise an aroused male when I saw one. Somethin' had his attention and it wasn't me.

"Oh man."

One thing I did know about camels – they didn't like to be without their friends, either.

I was discouraged enough to scoop Lucky up onto my shoulder and trudge back to the shelter I'd made the cat. Getting well on dark, I was done in. I needed sleep.

"Hope you're willing to share one night, buddy?"

In the morning, I went over my options again. Maybe the wind had changed or his companions were out of range but by dawn the guy had settled somewhat. From frantic down to seriously disturbed. An improvement, at least. I found a good quantity of rope, an old cross-saw frame and some cinches from horse gear that might make a rough camel saddle. I'd ridden horses bareback but I couldn't imagine how to stay on that seven-foot giant without something to hold onto.

And I did have to fix the nose plug first.

"Nice camel."

I figured if I could get some control over him, I might stand a chance. One seriously distracted beast against a guy with a smashed-up rib, no problem. I decided I would appeal first to one of his most basic needs. His stomach. I went and cut mulga, as the elder had told me I could do for the horses. I gathered up an armful of branches and ventured into the corral. Lucky, wisely, waited outside the fence.

"Come and get it. Grubs up."

It took me a while to get the big fella's undivided attention but he musta figured he needed to keep up his strength if he wanted to do what nature told him he wanted to do. A coupla times I thought he was gunna charge right through me but when I stood my ground, he gave it. Thankfully. When he dived his head into the armful I offered, I slid a rope up over his nose, up around his neck then looped it over his snout to make a halter. As he chewed rather noisily and hastily over my person, I congratulated myself.

Of course, a rope is one thing. Getting the camel to do what I wanted, another.

The nose ring I made from a long tapered bolt I found in the barn to which I attached twin lines. Like reins. Hopefully so I could steer the thing. Now all I needed was to be able to reach his nostrils.

I didn't let him eat his fill. I was gunna make him earn it. Or, that was the general idea.

"Hoosta. Hoosh," I yelled and yanked on the rope, as I'd found worked in other parts of the world to get them to heel or kneel or whatever you wanted to call it. Or, at least, that was what it sounded like the cameleers said. No go. The camel glared at me, lifted his head and went back to patrolling the fence facing the desert, dragging me full length with him.

I tried again. "Hoosta, hoosh." I pulled down as hard as I could, considering the health of my rib cage.

The camel pulled back harder. This time I was propelled forward flat on my face so I was eating dirt.

"Hoosta, hoosh." Yank.

Flipped on my back, as I was dragged for a full circuit of the pen. Lucky looked on, apparently entertained. Talk about the camel that broke the straw's back.

"Okay. Whoa. Truce. Timeout."

I needed to get smarter. I reminded myself I wasn't in any other part of the world than the one I was in. Maybe it was a communication problem. Maybe I needed to speak the local language, something he would understand. From what I'd heard of the lingo, it contained a whole heap of words I wouldn't normally use, 'specially not in mixed company if you know what I mean.

So I tried it. I _hooshed_, added the long drawl, got mad – sounding like I meant it when I didn't – and then let fly with the longest string of swear words I couldn't ever remember thinkin'.

The response was immediate. The camel's head came down. It gurgled and groaned like they do as if you're making them do the worst thing in the world. The animal went down on its knees first then settled back onto its hind and stayed there while I fed and watered it, and rigged up a pair of 'x' shaped frames from the cross-saw and 'h' shaped leathers, something that might keep me aboard a long time, me hoping under my breath the animal recognised a rider when he saw one. Gettin' thrown from a horse was one thing; this was like lookin' off the edge of a skyscraper. Couldn't afford to take too much of that.

When I was ready to go, spare ropes and a small drum lashed in front for water, I hesitated at the open gate. Lucky sat there at end of the wide arc I'd allowed for the camel. I double-checked my direction. The guys back at base had laughed themselves hoarse when I charged off the wrong way. I needed to remember I was in the southern hemisphere – where the sun apparently had a mind of its own. Good to know your sense of direction is off before you get lost, I always say.

I also knew it would take more than co-operation between the camel and me to get me through the things ahead, it needed a partnership. Dare I say, another friendship...

I looked back over my shoulder from time to time as I was clinging to my new fateful friend, wincing with every violent sway of the opposite stride. The cat sat just outside the gate, watching me go. The last thing I saw of him he was a dot on a dusty landscape. I didn't promise I would come back. It was the nature of what I did that made things, well, very 'temporary', hence my need to keep moving forward, travelling light, not shackled with any more of the past than I could safely carry. I'd discovered life had a momentum of its own. Hangin' on too tight just got me into all sorts of trouble. Trouble I didn't need – or couldn't change.

I can say, I did look back more than I normally did.

And, I had my answer. It wasn't so much about me at all – my gut or my head. It was about my friends and how important they were to me. The one constant. It was they who determined what and where I went – not me. So – maybe I needed to tell myself to choose my friends carefully and definitely not on how they first appear. Only, out here or anywhere for that matter, that choice was still a figment of my overheated, used-up, put-upon, beat-up imagination.

_Pete! Harry! Where are you?_

So, which way did my camel take me? Well, I'm still kickin' to tell the tale, that should give you a clue. Ashford? Did I get the ol' son of a crooked-barrelled gun? Well, now, that's an another story...

FIN


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